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  “One last night of freedom?” Paris asked as soon as she opened the car door at the curb.

  Her dark wavy hair had been woven between goldfish clips made from actual gold. Their diamond eyes winked as she pulled me under the nightclub's bright marquee.

  “No warden yet,” I said. “But it sounds like he's arriving soon.”

  “Too bad.” She grinned at me. “Bodyguards are hot.”

  “Really?” I asked. “You want one?”

  We both waved to the bouncer who didn't even bother checking his clipboard before he undid the velvet rope and let us in. We descended stairs that doubled as a glowing aquarium and headed to the bar. Paris ordered shots as I watched a mermaid swing through the elaborate tank above the bar.

  “So hot,” Paris said.

  “What?” I asked, wondering how the mermaids breathed in there. I loved the concept, but the mechanics seemed like they'd be a pain.

  “Bodyguards,” she said. “Bodyguards are hot. Don't you think?”

  “Please,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “They're glorified babysitters. And they make me look like I think I'm some sort of celebrity or something. Have you ever actually known someone who had a bodyguard?”

  Paris handed me a shot and we threw them back before she answered my question. “Anna Farron. Remember? Her father was getting death threats because he worked for that political place.”

  “The American Embassy in Damascus,” I said automatically.

  “Yeah, sure, that place.”

  She gave me a funny look, the kind most people gave me when I said something that proved the dumb rich girl act was just that. An act. “Anyway, Anna had a bodyguard who no one was even allowed to talk to. He just followed her around and communicated with the driver over this little bud he wore in his ear. Looked extremely hot in a suit.”

  “So that's your fantasy?” I asked. “A man who's not even supposed to talk to you and someone else listening through an earbud?”

  Paris fanned herself and nodded, her eyes sparkling. I laughed and ordered another round of shots. If we were going to celebrate my last night of freedom, then I intended to make it worthwhile.

  “Don't forget the muscles,” she continued. “Bodyguards are usually in top physical condition.”

  “Okay, that sounds better,” I said. Before I could stop myself, I added, “Did I tell you my bodyguard is actually ex-military? Army, Special Forces.”

  “Oh, god,” Paris said, collapsing against my arm. “Now there's another fantasy: a man in uniform.”

  “I'm surprised you haven't checked that off your list yet,” I said.

  Paris handed me my second shot. “The closest I've come to a man in uniform is that time you cracked your head and some military guy pulled you out of the pool. Remember that?”

  My cheeks flared with heat, and it wasn't only from the alcohol. For some reason, I'd never told Paris what happened that night. She knew he said he'd take care of me, but when she'd gotten back from her trip to Hong Kong, she'd been more about telling me about the men she met, and I'd told her how Ricky and I had broken up for the fourth time. I'd never mentioned him. Part of me said it was because he hadn't been that important, but a smaller part wondered if maybe I hadn't told Paris because he'd been too important.

  “Oh, whoa, wait.” She grabbed my arm. “What's that look for? Did I miss something? Did something happen with your hot hero?”

  “Come on, let's dance.” I got to my feet and pulled Paris after me before she could coerce a confession.

  As we shimmied our way through the tight crowd of dancers, Paris fell back and laughed. I looked where she was pointing and saw a banner hanging between the colored lights. That night's cover charge gave a percentage to a Naval veterans relief fund called A Shore Thing.

  I looked at the photograph of injured sailors displayed on the banner, and my heart clenched. My younger brother had made a full recovery and his injuries hadn't left any lingering physical issues, though he'd carry the scars the rest of his life. And even though he hadn't said anything, I knew those scars weren't only physical. I'd seen the shadow on his face, the pain in his eyes. I knew he'd watched his commanding officer die right in front of him, and there'd been nothing he could to do to stop it.

  I pivoted and danced on my spindly heels and felt a pang of guilt like a knock on my chest. Ian might have those scars, but he could walk. Run. Dance. He'd been lucky. I'd always known that him serving in the army could mean he'd be killed or injured in some horrible way, but it had been a distant knowledge.

  Had been. Now, it was all too real.

  “Maybe your bodyguard should wear his uniform,” Paris said, dancing over to yell in my ear.

  “I don't know,” I said, pushing thoughts of Ian and what could still happen to him out of my mind. “Camouflage isn't very attractive.”

  “It is if he's hot,” she countered. “Maybe you can get him into his dress uniform. Don't they all have one?”

  “I don't care what he wears,” I said, my voice sharp. “I don't want a babysitter.”

  “We'll find a way to ditch him, don't worry.”

  “Maybe I'll tell Grandfather he groped me, and I won't have to see him again,” I said. “Then I'll be free.”

  Paris laughed, but I suddenly felt mean. I hadn't even really meant it. It had just sort of slipped out. My dance steps slowed and Paris darted through the crowd to a tall, attractive man who had smiled at her. I let the crowd surge around me and slipped backwards off the dance floor.

  My thoughts had left the club and returned to my brother. All Ian wanted was to return to active duty. He'd been livid when he'd heard Grandfather had pulled enough strings to get him an honorable discharge. I'd tried to talk to him about it, surprising us both by taking Grandfather's side.

  “I gotta get back,” Ian said. “I gotta do my part. I didn't even get a chance to make a real difference.”

  “You did your part and you got hurt doing it,” I reminded him.

  “That's not it,” he said. His face was thinner than it had been before he'd left, and what had happened to him left new lines on his face. He didn't look like my baby brother anymore. “You don't understand. Another man almost died for me. I can't spend the rest of my life lounging around here. That's no way to repay him.”

  “I'm sure he'd understand,” I said. “And you could do so much good here. Away from all that. No one thinks you need to go back.”

  “I want to,” he insisted. “I need to.”

  I didn't understand it, the selfless decision to sacrifice for something untouchable like freedom. But I knew Ian wasn't the only one who felt that way. I looked at the banner again. Those men, I knew, would do the same thing if their injuries hadn't prevented them from being able to.

  I walked back to the bar and leaned against it. Within seconds, the bartender appeared in front of me. A long line of thirsty dancers scowled at me, but I ignored them.

  “You know anything about the charity tonight?” I asked.

  “No proceeds from drink specials or anything like that,” the bartender said, “but they are taking donations.”

  He nodded toward a narrow black table near the exit sign. Two resigned-looking men in dress uniforms stood at attention on either side of what I assumed was a very empty bucket. A lot of the women, and even a few men, were giving them appreciative looks, but no one had ventured over. I wondered how many women they'd had to turn down before the rest had gotten the hint.

  “How much to get them into the VIP section?” I asked.

  The bartender looked surprised, but answered my question without an additional comment. “Just convince the bouncer.”

  I left the bar without ordering and headed toward the VIP ropes. It was the same as every other club. A mountainous bouncer guarded the entrance as if the slightly raised section was actually better than any other place in the club. A few more comfortable seats, a sense of importance, and expensive bottle service were the only differences between the area behi
nd the velvet ropes and the rest of the space. Now I wondered why I'd ever really thought that mattered.

  “Can you help me out?” I gave the bouncer my sweetest smile.

  He looked down and tipped his head. The expression on his face clearly said he was wondering why I was speaking directly to him instead of walking past.

  I pointed toward the servicemen. “I want them to bring their donations table into this section.”

  The bouncer blinked at the men in uniform and then looked back at me.

  “They'll get better donations in there.” An idea popped into my head as I watched a group of giggling girls try to include the men in their selfie. “Especially if you tell them to charge for pictures.”

  A barely perceptible nod had me on my tiptoes to kiss the bouncer's cheek. His expression warmed and, as he turned, I saw a tattoo on his bicep that made me think he might've already been trying to figure out a way to get the men into a better area.

  Once the table was set up in the VIP section, the soldiers resumed their previous position. The bouncer opened the velvet rope for me, and I went directly to the table, hoping I could help them relax a bit. Paris caught me before I could reach them.

  “Seems tacky, right?” Her 'whisper' wasn't very quiet. “I mean isn't the whole point of the velvet rope to keep stuff like this out?”

  She tossed her hair, and I thought that one of her diamond-eyed gold fish hair clips would make a perfect donation. And probably bring in more than they'd already collected.

  “I mean, men in uniform are hot and all,” Paris said. “But I'm not here to be charitable. If I wanted a reminder that we're in this ridiculous war, I'd watch the news.”

  “At least get a picture,” I spoke through gritted teeth and tried to keep my tone civil. “Come on, I'll pay.” She gave me a disgusted look, but I kept pushing. “You were the one going on and on about your men in uniform fantasy. At least get a picture.”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh, okay.” She walked over to the men and smiled. “Come on, sailors, and give me a kiss.”

  I pulled out a hundred dollar bill and handed it to them. They both kissed Paris' cheeks and squealed and made a scene, which, for once, was the exact thing I'd wanted. I took a couple pictures to make sure we'd gathered plenty of attention and, before we moved on to our private booth, a line had formed.

  As Paris and a couple other girls I sort of knew giggled and drank their expensive champagne, I watched a steady stream of women and men making generous donations in return for posed pictures with the sailors. I allowed myself a little smile and a bit of pride as I thought of Ian. That money would help young men like him recover from whatever their sacrifice had been.

  “Here's to Leighton's new bodyguard,” Paris said suddenly. “May he use his fine body to keep her from harm.”

  The good feeling I had faded away as I remembered my grandfather's edict. I was too irresponsible even to take care of myself. Other people were deciding to put their life on the line, knowing full well what the deadly consequences could be, and all I could do was sit in a booth and complain about one of them being paid to keep an eye on me. Paid because he'd kept my brother alive. I drained my drink and poured myself another, hoping it would make my mind as blank as my life.

  Chapter 11

  Haze

  LAX was a cluster of angry business travelers shouting into their phones, people with dark sunglasses expecting they could cut to the front of the long lines, and tourists squealing with excitement over the bright and sunny weather. I wanted to smile as widely as any of the gawking tourists, but I put on my sunglasses and reminded myself I had a job to do. I'd enjoy being here, but work came first.

  I'd been telling myself that from the moment I decided to accept the job offer. The only way I could keep from feeling guilty was to promise myself that I'd keep myself focused on the work. Nothing else.

  I grabbed my duffel bag and headed toward the bank of taxicabs. In front of me was a line of drivers with white paper signs, waiting to escort various people to sleek, air-conditioned cars. I was surprised when a second glance showed my name on one of the signs.

  “Mr. Welch?” the driver asked as I walked up to him.

  “Yes.”

  I shook my head when he offered to take my duffel bag, and without another word, he led me to a glossy, black town car.

  “Mr. Pope sent me to pick you up, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I didn't bother to tell him not to call me 'sir.' I'd find out what Mr. Pope's policy was on that first.

  The driver opened the trunk of the car, carefully placed my duffel bag inside, and then opened the back door of the car for me. I slid inside, careful not to tilt my head to the right, and relaxed against the soft leather seat.

  Flying had never bothered me before, but take off and landing now terrified me. Dr. Bouton had warned me before leaving Cedar-Sinai that the changing pressure could affect my inner ear. Both times now, I'd followed every piece of advice from the motion sickness bracelets to chewing gum to forcing myself to yawn. I'd felt like a fool, but somehow, something had worked and I'd been okay.

  Maybe it’s gone, I thought suddenly.

  I carefully tilted my head, stretching my neck little by little until the point was reached and I felt the familiar wave of dizziness. I gripped the handle of the car door and focused on the back of my hand. Even though the physical sensation was disorienting, I was training myself to be still and steady until it passed. It was taking less time now, which was a good thing. Or at least it would've been if I hadn't been wanting a full recovery.

  “Not used to LA traffic?” the driver asked, obviously mistaking my actions for being nervous.

  The vertigo passed, and I peeled my grip from the door handle. I relaxed against the leather seat again and looked out the window.

  “Does anyone get used to it?” I asked.

  “I've been driving here for ten years, the past eight for Mr. Pope. It's crazy, but you'll get used to it.”

  “Eight years for Mr. Pope?” I asked. “What's he like?”

  After I’d signed the lawyer’s contracts in triplicate, I'd gone straight to my computer to look up Devlin Pope. It hadn't taken me long to find out my new employer was a Midwest transplant who’d managed to work his way up from nothing to become one of the richest men in the entertainment industry. After mopping floors at an unpopular country label, young Devlin had managed to throw himself in the path of a record executive and convince him to take a chance on an eager and unpaid intern. From there he clawed his way up and traded the recording business for one of LA's largest radio stations and a growing production company.

  His profile pictures showed a sharp man in his late sixties with bright blue eyes, short silver hair, and a clean-shaven face. He was always pictured in front of his private jet or some expensive car, but he was never smiling. It was hard to tell if he was modest or hard. Having grown up with a man to whom smiling didn't come easily, I was never quick to judge someone simply because they didn't smile.

  “Mr. Pope is fair, direct, and very observant. Don't think you can slack off. I swear the man knows the exact mileage on every car, even though he owns a fleet of the exact same black town cars.”

  Good, I thought, it would be impossible for me to work for someone sloppy or scatterbrained. My military heritage and training made me crave structure and a sense that whoever was in charge worked to get there. I wasn't the sort of man who balked under orders. I was a firm believer that respect had to be earned.

  “Though I hear you're working with Ms. Machus,” the driver said.

  I saw his eyes flick up to the rear view mirror and then back to the sunny highway.

  “Yes, I've been hired as Ms. Machus' personal security,” I said.

  The driver grinned. “Thank god for you, man. I'm not gonna tell tales, but I like driving, not running a three-ring circus. Simple, driving, that's why I like it.”

  “Ms. Machus doesn't lead a simple life?” I aske
d carefully.

  The driver sized me up as we stopped in traffic. “You look tough, you can take it.”

  Great. I'd intentionally not done a lot of research into the family. I'd seen a headline from a few years back where it said that Mr. Pope had gotten custody of his grandchildren after their parents died, but I hadn't read the article. It seemed too personal a thing for me to know about my...what was the word for her? Guardee? Because she wasn't my employer, her grandfather was. The papers Mr. Davis made me sign had made that clear.

  As for the girl herself, well, I'd gotten Mr. Davis's assessment of Ms. Machus, or at least what he'd claimed was her grandfather's assessment. And while I knew that the sort of young woman who grew up with that much money and prestige wouldn't be a picnic, I hadn't wanted to go into this with preconceived notions. While I understood that Mr. Pope would know his granddaughter, I also understood that parents – or any sort of parental figure – would also see her through their own perspective. While I loved my own parents, their reaction to my announcement about my new job had proven that.

  “Still.” The driver's voice pulled me from my thoughts. “She is Mr. Pope's only granddaughter. He's not going to let her get too far out of hand.”

  “That's where I come in?” I asked.

  “Sounds like you came very highly recommended. Special Forces?”

  “On medical leave,” I said.

  The lie felt like dust in my mouth, but I couldn't bring myself to admit my honorable discharge. I swallowed hard. That was the point of this little exercise, I'd told myself. I figured a few months of working on my feet would prove I could handle myself. Then I'd demand to be reevaluated. Perhaps Mr. Pope would help me get back in to see Dr. Bouton and get my diagnosis changed. I would come out of LA with a healthy bank account and a clean bill of health, ready to get back to my real duty.

  “Mr. Pope's grandson was in the army,” the driver said. “Honorable discharge. Don't think it made him too happy, but Mr. Pope just wants to make sure his family is safe.”